A Claim on Klondyke A Romance of the Arctic El Dorado

The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Claim on Klondyke, by Edward Roper

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

Title: A Claim on Klondyke

A Romance of the Arctic El Dorado

Author: Edward Roper

Release Date: July 2, 2011 [EBook #36577]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CLAIM ON KLONDYKE ***

Produced by Al Haines

ALONE IN THE VAST SOLITUDE.

A CLAIM ON KLONDIKE

A Romance

OF

THE ARCTIC EL DORADO

BY

EDWARD ROPER, F.R.G.S.

AUTHOR OF

'BY TRACK AND TRAIL THROUGH CANADA,' ETC., ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS

EDINBURGH AND LONDON

MDCCCXCIX

All Rights reserved

ILLUSTRATIONS.

ALONE IN THE VAST SOLITUDE . . . . . . Frontispiece

SHOOTING MYLES CAÑON

LAKE LA BARGE

FIVE FINGERS RAPIDS

ON THE YUKON AT THE MOUTH OF THE KLONDYKE RIVER

OUR DUG-OUT, OUR TUNNEL, AND OUR SLUICE

WHEN SHE APPEARED AGAIN I WAS GREATLY EMBARRASSED

MAY AND I IN THE DUG-OUT

IT WAS A MELANCHOLY UNDERTAKING

WELCOME, FRIENDS

A CLAIM ON KLONDYKE

PREAMBLE.

Somewhere near midnight in January 1897, a man—important to this little history—stood on an expanse of glittering snow, amidst low forest-covered hills and rugged mountains which were draped in the same white garb. He was looking eagerly towards the north-west, and was listening intently.

This man was muffled to the eyes in furs, he wore a rough bearskin coat, and his head was enveloped in a huge capote. He wore snow-shoes, and a gun lay across his arm.

A grand long-haired dog was by his side; he was listening, seemingly as intently as his master.

The moon was shining full, the deep purple sky was sown thick with brilliant stars,—one could have read small print easily, it was so light.

Not a breath of air was stirring.

The intensity of the cold was indescribable: if there had been the slightest wind, this man could not have stood thus, in this open space, and lived.

He was a large man really, but the immensity of his surroundings, the vast field of dazzling snow on which he stood, made him appear to be a pigmy, whilst his loneliness and solitude gave a note of unutterable melancholy to the scene.

Several minutes passed, neither dog nor man moving from this attitude of strained attention. All nature was absolutely motionless; no branch stirred in the near forest, nor was one flake of snow wafted by the softest zephyr—yet there was no silence. The far-off woods resounded with frequent sharp reports, as if firearms were being discharged there, the nearer rocks and trees from time to time gave forth detonations like fusilades of musketry, and beneath his feet—he stood on a broad space of water, turned to ice of unknown depth, cushioned deep with snow—were groanings, grindings, cracklings, and explosions. It was the terrible arctic cold that caused this tumult. One could almost fancy that these two figures, silhouetted black against the dazzling white, were frozen solid too.

At length the man moved, and, patting his companion's head with his gauntleted hand, spoke, No, good dog, he sighed, it's another hallucination. And the dog looked up at him, and whimpered, then turned his gaze again in the direction it had been before, with eagerness.

It was impossible to guess from this man's appearance what he was like: he was so enveloped in wrappers only his eyes were visible; but his voice proclaimed him to be gently bred—it had the accent of a cultivated Englishman.

No good, he went on muttering. Let us get back, old Patch, my sole companion in this awful wilderness; it was not a shot we heard, only the frost that made that clamour, and he made as if to move away.

But the dog evidently was not satisfied. He sat down, kept his nose pointed in the one direction, and whimpered again and again. The man stood still and listened.

Strange, strange, he spoke aloud, that Patch is so persistent; perhaps it will be well to go on a bit more. There's nothing to prevent it—no one waiting for us. I suppose it is about midnight by the moon; but night or day, it's pretty much the same up here. Yes; we'll go on along this frozen creek: one cannot well miss the way back.

He was silent for a few moments, then resumed, I'm talking aloud to myself again! or is it to the dog? This isolation, this loneliness, is terrible; but, come, my lad, come on! and he started.

Patch, seeing his master move, began to wag his bushy tail, and dance with delight; he flew ahead, barking and capering, but every now and then stopped suddenly, pricked up his sharp ears, and listened as his master did.

They must have pushed on a mile or more from where we first encountered them. The expanse of level snow had widened greatly. There were no trees near, the sound of the frost in rock and timber was distant and subdued, and they stood side by side again attentive.

Suddenly, away off in the ranges to their right, two reports were audible—unmistakably they were shots fired from a gun—and then immediately six sharp cracks resounded; it was the discharge of a revolver!

At the first noise, again the man's mittened hand sought the dog's collar to restrain him, for he was intensely excited. The moment the sixth revolver shot had sounded, he removed his hand, and shouted, Forward, good dog; go sic 'em! and the two rushed off in the direction of the sounds.

Another mile they covered rapidly, the dog running ahead and barking; then returning, looking eagerly and joyfully into his master's face, then hurrying on again.

But soon calling Patch to him, he held him and waited, hoping to hear more signs of human presence in that awful region. He was not disappointed.

Again two rapid gun shots were fired, and six revolver shots, and they were nearer than they had been before.

Patch, said the man then, we'll try what this will do, and lifting up his gun, he pulled one trigger, and a few seconds after the other. Then taking a revolver from his belt, he fired six cartridges slowly in the air.

What would come of this? would there be any response? He had not long to wonder. The signal was repeated, and he knew that there were fellow-creatures in those mountains. White, black, or red, he did not care then. The feeling that he was not alone in that white world, that terribly hard, frozen world, was enough for him.

He and the dog hurried on, ascended the low bare hill upon their right, and when after a vigorous climb they reached the summit, he fired again, as he had done before. Patch barked loudly, joyfully, and there came into his master's mind the certainty that he was on the point of some discovery, some adventure to break the monotony of his life.

The response was immediate. Down in the valley at his feet, but at some distance, what appeared to be a door was opened suddenly, revealing a light within, and in the illuminated space a figure stood, who, lifting up a gun, fired again. Next this figure ran out of the building brandishing a blazing pine-knot, and across the wide valley he distinctly heard the cry of a fellow-being, and, still more wonderful, more amazing, it sounded to be the voice of a woman in distress.

Go to her, Patch! he cried. The good dog obeyed, whilst he followed as rapidly as he could. It was rough ground, all rocks and fallen trees: he was exhausted ere he had traversed half the distance. Halting a moment to recover breath, he had a view against the bright light of the doorway of Patch crouched at the feet of the person there, who was stooping to caress him.

A few hundred yards more and he halted again for breath, and then he heard a long-drawn cry of agony. Help, oh! help! whoever you are! Indian or white man, come, come and help! And our friend called loudly across the waste: I'm an Englishman! Trust me. I'm making my way to you with all the haste I can! and over the snow-clad expanse resounded the response, Thank God! thank God!

CHAPTER I.

During the winter of 1895-96, I was staying at Bella Rocca, a boarding-house in Victoria, Vancouver Island, British Columbia. I had come to that charming city, on that beautiful island, to discover, if possible, an opening for the investment of my modest capital in a manner which would give me a more congenial way of making a livelihood than I had found in Eastern Canada, where I had resided for some few years.

When I first arrived in the Dominion, I settled in the backwoods of Ontario. Later, I had passed some years on the prairies, and later still, I had spent some time in the Rocky Mountains, the Selkirks, and on the Fraser river.

I had led a life of toil, I was well up in bush work and ways, but I did not like the life; so, having saved a little money, and having heard so much of the Pacific coast, I came to Victoria, as I have said.

At Bella Rocca a man was staying with whom I became very friendly: he was an Englishman, about my age, and had many tastes congenial to me. He was idle, appeared to have plenty of money, and seemingly had no wish to do any work or business.

He was my frequent companion in my walks around Victoria: there being few idle people there, and I having much time unoccupied, this friendship was mutually agreeable.

I was puzzled for a while about him. He was very reticent about himself—I could not even tell if he had been long in Canada, although occasionally a few words fell from him which made me believe he knew it well.

It was towards March; I had found nothing to suit me; I had often told this friend what I was looking for, and had been quite open about my past, my present desires, and my experience in the country, when one day, as he and I were sitting on Beacon Hill, enjoying the soft spring weather, gazing with delight at the glorious Olympic range across the Straits of San Juan de Fuca, Ah! said my companion—his name was Percy Meade—ah! it's not long now before I'll be outside there, and he pointed north to Cape Flattery and the Pacific Ocean.

You are going across, then—to China or Australia? I asked.

Neither, replied he, with a smile; I am going north by the first ship that sails.

North! I remarked. I was not greatly interested. Well, I've never had the wish to go up the coast. What is to be done up there?

He did not reply at once; but after a bit said he, I wonder you have never tried gold-mining in this country; don't you think it's worth considering?

I replied that I had heard so much about it in the mountains, and had read about the old days on the Fraser and the Cariboo, that I believed it to be a poor business, and supposed that every ounce of gold found cost two in labour and expense, and said many things that most men do who have not taken the gold-fever.

Meade said little more that day, but shortly after he asked me what I would do if I were told of a spot, by some one I could trust, where gold existed in large quantities, where any one who had the courage to go could pick it up, or at any rate obtain it, with comparatively little labour.

I replied that, no doubt, if such a chance were offered me I should accept it,—that I was as keen to make a pile as any one. Only, I added, laughing, I doubt if there are such places left, and still more that if any person knew of one he would tell me.

Meade was silent for some time, then, Look here, he said, very seriously, we've been together a few months; I can see the sort of fellow you are; you know what rough life is, I'm sure you can stand it better than most; so now, listen—I know of such a place, and I'll tell you about it on condition, naturally, that you'll keep it to yourself.

I smiled. How do you know? I asked, and why do you tell me?

To this he answered slowly and earnestly, "I was up north all last season—on the Yukon. I found a place on our side that is full of gold; you would hardly believe it if you saw it, but it is so. It is on a creek up a river that joins the Yukon in British territory, about seventy-five miles from the boundary, not far from the ruins of Fort Reliance.

"I went from Seattle last spring up the coast round the Alaskan peninsula, into Behring Sea, and so to Fort St Michael, where I landed. Then I proceeded up the Yukon in a stern-wheel steamer to a place they call Fort Cudahy, or the Forty Mile, in British territory. It was a terribly long journey—four thousand three hundred and fifty miles from here. It took eight weeks, and cost a big sum. There was a little mining going on up the river, but different from any I had seen, and I have been to Australia. I did not like the look of it. The diggers were scattered about, getting what they called flour-gold, and not so very much of that.

"The season during which washing can be done is very short—four months at most; but then it is broad daylight always, no night at all; men work ceaselessly—ay, and women too.

"I tried a little here and there, I 'prospected' about, and in time I got up the big river some long way indeed, until I came to a collection of shacks and shanties, with a store or two, that they call Dawson City. I was short of everything then but money, of which I still had a moderate supply; so I obtained some stores and a decent outfit, and after a few days of misery in the wretched place, I loaded all into a canoe which I bought, and pushed on, quite alone, up a river which joined the Yukon there. It was the THRON-DUICK—the Klondyke as it is called now. Paddling slowly up this stream, I landed frequently, seldom finding gold, and I always tried the soil as I went along. Occasionally I found the colour, once or twice enough to pay, I fancied, with good machinery. There was a fascination about this life. I believed that any moment some pan of gravel that I washed might be rich and give me all I wanted—a golden claim.

"I kept on thus until I must have been at least forty miles up this river. I passed several branches, for to me the main stream looked most promising, until I came to one, much narrower: it joined in with a rush and roar, and I liked the look of it. I landed, walked up it, and liked it so that I determined to ascend it if possible. I could not get my laden canoe up the steep water—I must therefore 'portage.' I set to work; I carried my stuff past the rapid. It was a tough job getting my canoe up, but by good luck I did. Then I went on again, trying here and there as usual.

"When I was too tired to keep on, I put up my little tent ashore and slept. When rested, on I went again.

"I had quite lost reckoning; I had no idea of the day of the week or month, but the sun indicated that the summer was going. It would not do to be caught up there as unprovided as I was. I thought I had come far enough, so, reluctantly, I made up my mind that I would after another day or two retrace my steps.

"That very day I found what I had looked for. I hit upon a bar on this creek, where gold was so thick that I was bewildered.

I suppose you know how gold is washed? Well, I had no need to wash—I picked out of that heap of gravel in three days over seventy-five pounds' weight of it!

Seventy-five pounds of gold! Why, that was worth £3000! I cried.

Yes, quite that, said Meade; but I got £2500 for it here, and have a decent little bag of nuggets still unsold. I'll show them to you at the bank some day if you like.

I smiled. I'm afraid I did not altogether believe him. I had an idea that he was romancing. How did you get down and bring all that gold with you? I asked, half laughing.

It's too long a yarn to tell now, he replied. I got back all right to Dawson in my canoe, sold it, and managed to keep my find secret. I fortunately procured a passage in the stern-wheeler, P. B. Weare, the last boat for St Michael's that season. From there I easily got here, and no one knew that I had struck gold—no one does know it yet but the manager of the bank, and now you.

It was a most interesting story, certainly; I was glad to have heard it, but there was no such luck for me, I observed, at which Meade laughed, but added, See here, I've told you this because I want you to share with me this season! What d'ye say?

What? I exclaimed, and get gold like that? Oh! of course I'll go; but are you in earnest? why should you favour me thus?

He declared solemnly that he meant it; he averred that he had taken to me, that he knew I was strong, healthy, a good fellow, and used to working in rough country, and as he was determined to go, and certainly would not do so again alone, he had made me his confidant and this offer in perfect good faith, and he ended thus, Think it over, take time, keep what I've told you to yourself, but I hope you'll join me.

Later, he explained that we must leave Victoria soon, that we should come back at the end of September, and that he would be miserably surprised if we did not return with reasonable piles. But we will not go the way I went, said he. No, I met some men at Dawson who had come by a much shorter route—by the Lynn Canal and Skagway. We save thus nearly 3000 miles, and the trail is quite feasible. You've done some boating, some canoeing, I suppose?

I said I had, both in England and Canada, which pleased him, and he assured me that we should do splendidly, and again he said he hoped I'd join him.

Naturally, I did think this over. I heard about his antecedents from the bank manager, found he was a member of a good old English family, and that he himself was of good repute. I heard from the same source that it was true about the gold he had brought down, I saw his bag of nuggets, and I liked him. I was looking for some employment, I counted the cost, and knowing that if, at the worst, I returned empty-handed, I should not even then be quite without funds, I consented to share with him in the adventure. He was to defray all expenses.

It was early in April that he and I started in a steamer bound for Sitka and other ports in Alaska. She came from Tacoma, in the State of Washington, and picked us up at Victoria on her way to the north.

Meade having all plans cut and dried, it did not take us long to lay in our stock of necessaries. We purchased provisions, tinned meats and vegetables, flour and bacon, with plenty of various preserved foods, enough to keep us going well for at least a year. We took ample supply of tobacco, with guns, ammunition, a sheet-iron Yukon stove, picks, shovels, washpans, and we did not forget our axes. All these goods were done up in parcels covered with waterproof canvas, each in weight suitable for packing, that is for Indians to carry.

Leaving Victoria, we travelled up between Vancouver Island and the mainland to Naniamo. Here we took in coal, then headed up the coast.

How am I to describe to you this wonderful journey? Words fail me. From the very start it was delightful. True, we were at sea; but being amongst islands, we were so sheltered that it was like a placid river. We traversed the grandest scenery that can be imagined, the water clear and smooth as glass, with air as soft as velvet. We sighted Queen Charlotte's Islands, but voyaged through channels nearer the mainland, between grand timbered islets, past rocky bluffs and gorges, always in sight of mountains, many being snow-covered and glaciered. Then on between Prince of Wales' Island and the mainland, and so to Fort Wrangel, where we left the goodly steamer. We had come seven hundred miles in her, and had been four days on the way.

Wrangel was just a rough group of shanties, with some stores and many totem-poles, as most of the few inhabitants were Indians of the Stickeen tribe. The whites were traders, or miners and prospectors, en route to the Yukon country. Here we hired a canoe to carry us to Juneau. It was an immense one, beautifully fashioned out of one huge log of cedar—a dug-out—but in shape and seaworthiness most excellent. We engaged four Indians to man it. Most of the trip was made with paddles; but sometimes a square sail was hoisted on a pole forward. We camped each night upon the rocky shores.

It took three days to reach that town. It is the metropolis of Alaska, Sitka being the capital. But most of the business is done in Juneau. It is, naturally, a rough and ramshackle place, yet we found it possible to obtain fair accommodation at a queer hotel, and every article of provisions and gear needed in the upper country. It has a city hall and court-house, waterworks, banks, and electric light and wharves! We had to wait two days for one of the two small steamers which ply between Juneau and Skagway. The Rustler is the one we took, the fare then being only 10 dollars each—but we had to feed ourselves.

After leaving Juneau we steamed along a narrow strait between Douglas Island and the coast, and entered the famed Lynn Canal, which is an